


Courante

by psikeval



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Partners briefly advance, then retreat, and repeat these steps throughout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courante

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asolitaryrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asolitaryrose/gifts).



> This is as canon-compliant as I could make it regarding Josephine & Leliana's personal timelines and the events in Orlais prior to Inquisition, without having read the tie-in novels or played Leliana's DLC. Hopefully any remaining errors won't be too jarring for those more knowledgeable than me.

“The motion of a courante is chiefly characterized by the  
passion or mood of sweet expectation. For there is something heartfelt,  
something longing and also gratifying, in this melody:  
clearly music on which hopes are built.”

 - _Johann Mattheson_

*

 

Tonight’s ball celebrates the nameday of the Marquise de Churneau, and the decorations resemble nothing so much as an explosion of gilded frosting on an oversized cake—part of Sontre’s writings becoming the fashion this past month, and all the nobility suddenly proclaiming that man’s place was to be dwarfed by the majesty of their surroundings, never to diminish them. The guests themselves are therefore dressed in silks of muted color, with hardly any pattern to them at all. The marquise herself is in a drab gown the color of sack cloth, which undoubtedly cost her a small fortune.

Josephine’s own dress is made entirely from a shade of grey a little paler than her eyes, a color that suits her not at all. Not that its intention is to suit her, she thinks, frowning down at one shapeless sleeve. But if her mother could see her now—

 _Mama would want you to succeed, whatever the means,_ she tells herself sternly. Setting up Josephine to live properly in Val Royeaux—that is, to live in such a way that her adherence to its ever-changing fashions could be considered beyond reproach—had been no small investment, and she will not let it go to waste.

For the moment, that means making rounds among the nobles with Marcel, another aspiring bard. It is comforting to not be so alone, and she doesn't like him at all, which presents a good first challenge. She's made something of a game of it, staying civil and keeping her annoyance carefully hidden; after all, a bard must be able to keep company with all sorts. A bard must be able to lie.

Lying, alas, has never been Josephine's particular talent.

They have just exchanged pleasantries with a group of the youngest de Launcets when someone begins to sing, the soaring descant of a chantry hymn that is popular in spring. And such a voice— high and sweet and perfectly pitched, making use of the ballroom's size and shape so it sounds as if the song is coming from the very walls around them. Josephine finds herself turning without meaning to, seeking the source of the sound. “Who is _that?_ ”

Marcel smirks, always insufferable when he knows something others don’t. “The singer, you mean? She's Leliana. One of Marjolaine’s best.”

Already a bard, then, and sure to be an accomplished one. If the beautiful song filling the hall wasn’t enough to prove it, any apprentice to Marjolaine must surely weave her way through lies and secrets as easily as air. A pang of jealousy, unbidden and utterly unfair, nevertheless makes itself known in the far corners of Josephine's mind. Someday, perhaps, that could be her.

As soon as she can politely excuse herself from the conversation, Josephine starts to make her way along the edges of the ballroom, seeking the source of the sound. 

Not much can be divined about this Leliana from a distance; she is slight, with reddish hair, and dressed in a simply tailored dark grey gown. Her mask is of a type popular among bards this season, soft grey feathers layered along the edges of the smooth white façade.

And when the song ends, she stands up, accepts the muted praise of her audience, and begins to walk directly toward Josephine.

That can't be Leliana's intent, of course; far more likely that the nearby table of refreshments is her true destination. But the opportunity has presented itself—for a bard of Marjolaine's, she looks quite young, up close, and perhaps she wouldn't mind if Josephine were to—

“Hello,” she blurts out before she can think twice.

Leliana’s smile is steady, practiced and slow beneath her mask. “Good evening. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

When speaking, her voice is lower than Josephine expected, graceful in a way that makes her envious all over again. Not that she would begrudge anyone their poise. It’s just that for some it seems to come so _easily,_ while the effort behind her own manners feels so obvious.

“No, we haven't,” she says, trying to project even the slightest bit of that charm. “Josephine Montilyet.” 

“A pleasure. My name is Leliana.”

 _Right_ , Josephine nearly says, but blessedly restrains herself from anything more than a polite nod. “It was wonderful to hear you sing.”

“You’re too kind.”

“No!” she insists, too passionately, the sort of tone Orlesians only use to make a scene or make a point.  For Josephine, it only seems dreadful that Leliana not understand her sincerity, even as Josephine's neck warms with embarrassment and she nervously tucks back a bit of her hair. “I— beg your pardon. I only meant that I didn’t intend to flatter you. Truly, you have a gift.”

“Thank you," says Leliana, and repeats the words in a murmur to a servant who brings her a glass of wine. "You are new here, yes?”

“Relatively.” She very consciously does not bite her lip. “Is it that obvious?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. The Game thrives on new arrivals and fresh ideas, the sort of lifeblood brought by youthful passions.” The lilt of Leliana’s voice is captivating whether in song or simple words, soothing its way over Josephine like a caress; she allows herself the weakness of gazing down at her tangled fingers to hide any sign of the blush surely spreading across her face.

“You make it sound much more poetic than it feels, making constant missteps.”

“We all must find our way, no?”

 Josephine glances up to find Leliana watching her, head tilted, a small crooked smile spreading beneath the edges of her mask.

“Now I must attend to the marquise, but it was good to meet you, Josephine.”

“I— yes. Likewise.”

She watches Leliana go with a helpless sinking in her chest, like an opportunity she might've grabbed hold of, if only she knew how.

 

*

 

Minutes before the most important guests begin to arrive, it occurs to Josephine that she might have made a mistake.

Outwardly, of course, she must remain composed and cheerful, but with no one to whom she can confide her worries, Josephine begins to panic. It is a _slight_ panic, hardly the sort of thing she ought to share with anyone else—still, what if she’s been too presumptuous? She and Leliana were acquaintances at best. Perhaps this whole idea was ill-conceived.

Given the tales coming out of Ferelden, it is only fitting that Val Royeaux welcome back one of its own in style and celebrate Leliana’s part in ending the Fifth Blight. Josephine volunteered to arrange it almost without thinking; doubtless half the court expected it of her already, given how often she's been involved in coordinating similar affairs for visiting nobles and dignitaries.

She's almost too caught up in her concerns to notice the arrival of her guest of honor.

Leliana is wearing a dark blue dress that is certainly several seasons old, from the court's lengthy dalliance with wearing many fabrics of a single color — not that it should matter in the least, after all she's accomplished. The Game makes overly harsh critics of them all. Besides, she could have shown up in a shapeless brown sack, and doubtless the nobles would still be scrambling to imitate her example by week's end.

“Josie!” she says brightly, and steps quickly forward, taking off her mask.

Such small things, to make Josephine’s breath catch in her throat. Leliana’s skin shows the time she’s spent traveling, sun-kissed and faintly freckled, with a faint scar hiding just under her chin. Her smile is very beautiful. All of her, in fact, is just so...

“Josie,” Josephine repeats like a fool, and could kick herself for it.

The dress makes her eyes look very blue, so expressive with the quirk of her brows and that smile to accompany them. “Is it too familiar?”

“No, not at all! It’s—very Fereldan.” She winces right away and means to apologize, because of course that would be seen as an insult to anyone west of the Frostback Mountains, but Leliana only laughs, a light and lovely sound.

“As am I, I think. It’s been so long since I’ve tried to play the Game. Like trying on old shoes,” she says, with a shrug and a wrinkle of her nose. “I’ll adjust.”

“Oh. Perhaps a ball was less than ideal.”

“No, don’t worry!" She steps closer, taking Josephine's hands. "It’s good to see you.”

It's hard to know what to say to that, in front of all these people, with Leliana standing unmasked before her. Predictably, Josephine takes refuge in the safety of manners she's learned by rote, though she does allow herself the luxury of running a thumb over Leliana's gloved knuckles. "And you, as well."

"Rather more of me than is proper, I suppose," says Leliana, and puts on her mask once more, a process that perhaps keeps her from noticing what Josephine's traitorous mind made of  _that_ comment.

“Ambassador. So you did not become a bard?”

The innocent question startles a laugh from Josephine — it seems a lifetime ago, the notions of a young and hopelessly naïve young woman, so far away she can hardly recall a time she truly wanted it. "I did not. It… was not the path for me.”

“Then I’m glad that you found another way. That life is dangerous, and you seem so happy as you are.”

Josephine can’t quite help her smile from spreading. “I am."

"Well," Leliana just barely curtsies, still without ever letting go of her hands, "as my host, will you help parade me about? Perhaps then we can get out of here and find something a little more lively, yes?"

"Of course, my lady."

"Leliana, please. It's bad enough I called you Josie."

"No, please! It was—"  _intimate._ "Charming."

"Oh?" says Leliana, her head tilted inquisitively, but then they are swept into the crowd, their conversation lost.

Naturally, everyone worth knowing welcomes Leliana back with open arms and invitations to their very own private salons. Some of them are already talking expansively about what is old being made new again. All of Val Royeaux will probably be scrambling to uncover cast-off doublets and gowns from their collections, in their haste to imitate Leliana—who only laughs and makes a mocking twirl that sends her skirts flaring around her. "Inspired to something practical! I suppose they can thank me later."

All told, they barely spend an hour at the ball; once set in motion, it hardly requires the presence of its own honored guest. It's simple enough to make their excuses and escape, once Leliana's most pressing obligations have been fulfilled. 

And there's always a place to go in Val Royeaux. They find themselves a party with no important heads of state, only bards and young nobles, romantics of every stripe, and strong sweet drink that goes right to Josphine's head. Or perhaps more correctly it goes to her blood, leaves her feeling flushed and not quite able to hide her own giddiness. Leliana is so very pretty.

They dance together, and dance again, to music played by young would-be bards whose eagerness makes Josephine smile to remember. Of course, she's smiling rather a lot. It's a beautiful night, and Leliana is holding her hand, even when the dance is through, is picking a lock and drawing Josephine close in a small room down the hall from the others. No one else in the world can ever have been so lucky.

“Is _this_ too familiar?” she murmurs, breath warm against Josephine’s ear.

"No." She grabs at Leliana's waist, blushing from the drink and the knowledge of her own eagerness. "Please—"

The thrill of Leliana kissing her is— she didn't know it could feel like this, being desired, being pressed so gently against the wallpaper with fingers stroking at the small of her back. Leliana's lips are so very soft, insistent, her tongue slipping into Josephine's mouth and stroking until a quiet moan escapes and she squirms between Leliana and the wall she's been pinned to.

At last, far too soon, Leliana pulls back and gives her a moment to breathe. "We should get back to the party."

"Of course." Josephine's lips feel so very... tingly. To say nothing of the rest of her, the dreamy euphoria spreading through her limbs more strongly than any drink. She cards her fingers gently through Leliana's hair and kisses her again, and again, until it seems absurd that they should ever move from this spot at all. And the quiet breathy sound Leliana makes is—gratifying, to say the least.

"Ah— right. Yes," Josephine manages a little later, dazed. "The party."

"The party," agrees Leliana, and they make it back to the others with only a few more brief delays.

 

*

 

"You've returned! Is the Revered Mother well?"

The inquiry springs forth unbidden, seeing the seriousness of Leliana's expression, and Josephine instantly berates herself for not simply kissing her instead. Questions could have come later, but now that she's asked it would be rude to interrupt the answer, or to make light of Leliana's reasons for leaving in the first place by simply leaping into her arms and—

Josephine busies herself with adjusting her sleeves, the better to ignore the heat suffusing her face. "I trust you traveled safely?"

"I did. And as for Dorothea, I have news." Leliana no longer has any tells, most likely cast them aside years ago through sheer force of will, but she hesitates before speaking again, which for her is indication enough that something serious has happened. "The Divine is gravely ill."

"Beatrix? Andraste's mercy. Does the empress know?"

"She will, by the end of the day."

"Then it must mean the conclave will be meeting shortly."

“Yes." Leliana's brow furrows, half-apologetic. "I cannot say what I think will happen. It hinges on many things, not least of which is the Maker’s blessing. But things may be changing for me—for everyone. A difficult road lies ahead, but if we can find a way forward..." she gestures in the empty air and shrugs, a small self-deprecating smile flitting across her face. "Dorothea gives me hope."

"Has she asked you to do something?"

Leliana nods. “That's the reason I'm here now, to warn you. It might no longer be safe to say that we are friends.”

"Ah." _Friends_. A useless detail to seize upon, at a time like this. Like the pattern of the carpet or that old chip in the paint on the wall, small things never adding up to a whole. “You do realize I’m a terrible liar.”

“But a perfect diplomat." Leliana takes her hand and gently interlaces their fingers, lifts them to brush a kiss over Josephine's knuckles. "Say whatever you must to ease your way.”

For a long moment they stand in silence; Josephine doesn't speak until she's certain her voice won't shake. “You’re frightening me.”

“Then I’m sorry for it, truly. Perhaps it won’t be necessary. But I couldn’t bear it if harm came to you on my account.”

It's too much to take, all of it, and Josephine has no intention of trying to be stoic about this, of feigning a properly distant Orlesian concern and playing their Game even now, because damn it all, she is _Antivan_ and she is in love. She embraces Leliana before she can doubt herself. "Be safe," she whispers fiercely, as if a command can make it so, and Leliana's arms tighten around her.

"And you."

 

*

 

"A lovely party as always, Ambassador Montilyet."

“Madame Vivienne! Had I known you’d return from the coast so soon, I might have asked for a plate of those cakes you favor from the kitchens.”

“Oh, darling, don’t be absurd. With vol-au-vents in fashion I daresay no one would have eaten them. Still, it's kind of you to think of it.”

Enchanter Vivienne touches Josephine's arm briefly as the empress calls her away, thanks and farewell both. Despite rumors of a fierce rivalry between her and Celene's rarely seen but much-discussed arcane advisor, Vivienne appears to have settled in beautifully at court over the past few years. The number and quality of her personal connections are helpful, of course, but she's also managed to charm even the most conservative and distrustful of Celene's usual retinue. A rare and precious skill indeed, for a mage with her freedoms.

The next guest to approach Josephine is also alone, a woman dressed in purple silk whose half-mask is fashioned to look as if it is made of stone. It is a mask that belongs to no house, is favored by no particular group, but of course it needn't be.

This woman serves only the Most Holy, and Josephine would know her no matter what.

“Sister Nightingale.”

A gentle smile tugs at Leliana’s mouth, not because she cannot hide it but because she’s chosen to let it be seen. The distinction is important enough to set Josephine’s heart racing. It’s been months since they last saw each other at court, and longer still since—

“Ambassador,” says Leliana, soft and low. "Good to see you again."

"You've been well, I hope."

"I cannot complain."

"Of course." Josephine wants so badly to reach out and touch her.

Instead they are separated for most of the party, first by the necessity and then, it seems, by pure inconvenience. Leliana must circle the gardens making the rounds of the favored nobles in court, all of whom must be seen with her, none of whom will later admit to having the slightest idea who she is. Then Josephine is waylaid by the ambassador from the Anderfels and a lengthy story involving his second cousin; by the time she extricates herself Leliana has been claimed by Orlais' most voluble revered mother. And on it goes for hours, until even Josephine, accustomed as she is to social obstacles, is nearly ready to scream with the frustration of it.

A foolish notion, she reminds herself, ducking into a shadowed alcove with walls trimmed out of impeccable shrubs, left abandoned because it offers no vantage point for guests to watch each other, or be seen talking to the right people. Before all else, Josephine has a job to do, and has hardly exchanged a glance with Leliana since she arrived; there's no way of knowing if she even—

Arms wrap around her waist from behind, sudden and sure. Josephine jolts in surprise and nearly squeaks, but she knows those hands, and lets Leliana draw her close. It’s suddenly quite difficult to breathe, in the hushed half-darkness of the alcove.

“Might I borrow you?” Leliana asks against Josephine’s neck.

She allows herself the luxury of melting back against her, places her own hands carefully over Leliana's. “You may. Of course. I missed you.”

The grip on her body tightens, and Josephine wonders if they'd possibly have time here and now, if she would dare—

“One hour," says Leliana in her ear, a relief and disappointment all at once. One of her fingers draws circles over the bodice of Josephine's gown, pressing just enough to be felt. "It will be enough time that no one will notice. Make your excuses and retire for the evening, yes?”

 _Yes_. Of course her answer is yes.

She could not say how she spends the hour, even as it occurs. The proper words are spoken, the necessary guests made to feel welcome and appropriately fussed over. Beyond that, Josephine is only aware of how pale and still Leliana looked, even smiling, and how many questions she means to ask — until, as if by  miracle, they are alone in Josephine's rooms and she is asking them.

"Do you go all these places yourself?"

"On occasion, but it is rare. I operate a network all over Orlais, and in parts of Ferelden. Spies and scouts, for the most part."

“Spies? Such wickedness! I’m shocked.”

“Oh, hush, you.” She smiles crookedly and barely bothers with a gentle smack to Josephine's shoulder before kissing her quiet, fingers curling in the loose waves of her hair. At the slightest suggestion of a push, Josephine lets herself be tipped back onto the sheets, and of course Leliana lands on top of her with the utmost grace, pinning her down with hips and hands and kissing her breathless.

By the time she stops, Josephine has nearly forgotten what she meant to ask—but not quite.

“Are you all right?” she asks, hesitant. “I don’t mean to pry, but. I worry."

Leliana shrugs, philosophical in the face of it all, and finally looks away from Josephine's lips. “I don’t think it matters so much, how I am. I serve the Divine, and the Maker, as best I can. My purpose is clear. It’s more than many are able to find in this life.”

“Well,” says Josephine, trying not to frown, “it matters to _me_.”

“Oh, Josie.” A gentle curve of her smile, and Leliana leans close again, warm and so very near, hands roaming distractingly over the bodice of Josephine’s gown. She kisses Josephine's chin, of all things, and along her jaw, and trailing in a line down her throat. “Sometimes I wish…”

“Whatever it is," she manages, not without difficulty, "I suspect you can have it.”

A huff of laughter, bitter and wistful, against the line of her collar. "Can I? Can you give me lost time? Keep me from regretting all the months we've spent apart, and the time still to come?"

Every word aches, but there isn't any time to reply. Leliana sits up and takes off her gloves with her teeth, a gesture that is—or should be—more economical than seductive, tugging her hands away as if she expects fabric a good deal heavier than satin. She frowns, hums dismissively while tossing the gloves aside, and places one bare hand at Josephine’s neck, leaning down into another kiss.

Leliana’s fingers work quickly at the clasps and gilded buckles of Josephine’s gown, tailored in the Antivan style—warm hands slip under the layers of silk, spreading over the thin dark linen undergown, now all that stands between bare skin and Leliana’s fingertips. Her thumbs press in at Josephine’s hips, drawing heavy circles til Josephine squirms and giggles helplessly, not ticklish but breathless and unsure how to show it.

"Oh, darling," breathes Leliana, pressing her gently down on the mattress, "you deserve so much more than secrets."

"I'll be the judge of that," she huffs, primly as possible while spread out half-undressed with Leliana's hands light on her wrists. "Besides—" Josephine pauses, frowns and blows a bit of hair out of her eyes, pretending not to notice how it makes Leliana smile, "—as secrets go, I think you're well worth keeping."

It earns her another kiss, slow and building til she can't keep still in Leliana's hold, pleads wordlessly for more against her lips—and with another separation looming, they don't bother much with words for the rest of the night.

 

*

 

The armor is a jarring sight, neat links of silver mail covering Leliana from shoulder to knee. She moves in it with an ease that speaks of perfect craftsmanship, all that metal kept gleaming and silent. Her gloves are of quality leather, flexible at her fingers but heavy around her wrist and forearm, like a falconer’s trappings. Her hair, at least, is ever the same, if partly concealed by that deep purple hood.

And she's here at last, safe and in one piece, three years since they last set eyes on each other, but Josephine still can't quite let it go.

“ _Painful_ integrity,” she mutters again. “You know, some people might say it like a compliment.”

“You are the best person for the task. Is that not compliment enough?” There’s a sharpness to Leliana’s voice, manifesting in the cold slash of her mouth—but she takes a breath, and it softens into something more uncertain. “Will you come?”

“Of course,” says Josephine, startled. It was what she always meant to say, and as for the rest—well, she tells herself it doesn’t matter, tucks that flash of hurt away and scolds herself silently for being unkind. It's no mark of friendship to expect Leliana never change, never be weighed down by the shadows of her path. 

“You expected more from me,” says Leliana, light and wry. “I may continue to disappoint.”

Unspeakable boldness drives Josephine forward, pressing a kiss to Leliana’s lips, parted in surprise. “You could never,” she says firmly, with her arms around Leliana, fingertips resting so carefully on the links of mail. The armor is beautiful after all; it suits her, she decides.

"I wouldn't be so quick to believe that."

"Trust me on it. Besides, we've not yet negotiated terms for your offer."

"Oh? What do you suggest?"

"A good desk," she says decisively, "And quite a supply of ink, I imagine. But I won't need quarters of my own. That is—if you're willing to share."

Leliana stares, brow furrowed despite the hint of a smile. "At the moment, I sleep in a tent outside the chantry."

"I've never camped before. You'll have to show me how it's done."

There's a moment of silence between them, standing so close in the chateau courtyard, both unmasked. The uncertainty in Nightingale's eyes lingers only a moment longer. Then her gloved fingertips brush across Josephine’s cheek and Leliana laughs as she did ten years ago, clear and bright.

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Ambassador Montilyet.”

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> ETA if you haven't seen the [incredibly gorgeous art](http://anaeolist.tumblr.com/post/117134129278/for-asolitaryrose-who-wanted-some) created by anaeolist, you should check that out immediately because it is AMAZING.


End file.
